d'Artagnan Whump, A-to-Z
by RowanaRenee
Summary: Please stand by for edits! The cleaning crew (of one) has arrived to make this somewhat fit for readers' consumption!
1. Asphyxiation

**A/N: Having seen only the first eight episodes, please bear with me and do not hesitate to point out the abominable mistakes you'll no doubt find in these oneshots. They'll be kept...mm, sort of serious, but no promises are made. I find the prospect of twenty-six horrible things chained together in one continuity too hilarious not to make fun of.**

**Please feel free to leave suggestions, particularly for X, Y, and Z. I have X partly taken care of, but not so much for the other two. Other letters are also welcome to this party, so please ask away. If you don't want to leave a word, you can give me a situation and I'll do my best to find a word to fit it.**

**Intro aside, I hope you enjoy these oneshots. :D  
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**(Please note that the characterization is based on that of the BBC version...and the 2011 version...and the book...and the fandom version...and things that make me go happy...and- you get it...:P)**

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_~ A is for...Asphyxiation ~_

* * *

Everyone else gives chase when the man starts to run, so d'Artagnan follows their lead.

He's always been a fast runner, but has recently become more practiced at it than even he'd care to be- there is, as it so happens, an _awful_ lot of running involved when it comes to being a not-quite musketeer- and quickly pulls ahead, gaining on the criminal and nearly closing the gap between them. When the man suddenly ducks under a low gate and slashes at the rope holding it up, d'Artagnan doesn't slow down.

With only a few steps before the gate, he can hear a shout of, "d'Artagnan, wait!" somewhere behind him, but he's going too fast and what happens next is almost more from reflex than any actual intent.

He drops easily to the floor and slides under the falling gate in what is really a spectacular maneuver, clearing the space just as the heavy wood meets the floor, and rolls to his feet as gracefully as a cat, hair barely ruffled. Honestly, he's proud of himself for that one.

It registers a second later that the gate lead to a dead end, and that he's effectively cornered the criminal, whose only option for escape now is the window.

d'Artagnan forgets how many floors up they are, but there were a lot of stairs involved so he's confident the drop would be enough to break a person's legs if not kill immediately.

With a wide grin, he shakes the sweat-dampened hair from his eyes and levels his sword at the criminal's chest.

It's at some point during the fight that ensues that he remembers an important detail. There is now a gate separating him and the criminal from the Inseparables. The mechanism meant to lift said gate is broken. It isn't a worrying factor, certainly not requiring as much focus as avoiding being stabbed to death. The three of them together are more than strong enough to lift it, and he can help once the criminal is subdued-

The man, who is at least d'Artagnan and roughly a half tall, as well as close to three d'Artagnans wide, locks their blades and, instead of trying to pull the Gascon's sword away, throws his entire weight toward the startled boy, sending both of them stumbling toward the window. At some point, the sword is torn from d'Artagnan's grasp and he can almost hear the blades clattering across the floor, but now there are more pressing matters to worry about.

Like the fact that he's being bent painfully backwards with a strong hand pressing down on his neck. He's keenly aware now that he was right about the drop from this window, which it seems the man's intention to push him completely out of.

Oblivious to the shouting musketeers and doing what he can to ignore the alarming difficulty of breathing right now, d'Artagnan kicks and claws, thrashing wildly but uselessly. The pressure on his throat lessens when the man opts for grabbing his shoulders instead, grip like iron and completely unrelenting. The man's face is twisted into a feral grin, teeth showing and eyes glinting with pleasure. d'Artagnan's head and shoulders are caught in open space, his heart beating so rapidly it almost hurts when the drop begins.

One flailing foot connects with a target, and the man lurches back, dragging a relieved d'Artagnan with him. He drops uneasily to the floor, panting for breath while the criminal prowls and the musketeers work to open the gate.

d'Artagnan springs back to his feet as the man rounds on him once again, gaze darting frantically around the room in search of a weapon. He has time for a yelp before the man crashes into him, both of them tumbling down in a tangle of arms and legs. He's wrestled onto his back, pinned down and punched once, twice, a third time...he catches the man's wrist before all the stars have been blinked away, trying with both hands to push him away but failing miserably.

Before he fully understands what's happening, he's hauled upright and thrown against the gate, the man's hands locked around his throat and cutting off his pained shout. Aramis yelps as well, hand caught between d'Artagnan's back and one of the bars.

Now, there's a purely murderous look in the man's eye as he stares d'Artagnan down, pressing so hard d'Artagnan's sure the wood will crack at any moment. He tries to fight, to glare defiantly, but his fumbling hands are weakening and there's a sound like a drumbeat drowning out his friends' voices. His vision is dotted black, a strange gray mist appearing around the edges.

He half expects to hear some sort of choir at any minute, but the drums grow faster and harder, jarring his bones and making his head spin as everything disappears at once.

There's a sudden sound, thunderous and rattling, followed by a violent pull, and then he's falling...

* * *

The first thing he's aware of is that he really wishes he wasn't aware of anything.

He's lying down, something cold and hard beneath him, but there's something not quite like a pillow under his head, hands on his face, in his hair...it's an insistent touch that beckons him back from the dark, gentle but firm an accompanied by a worried voice.

"That's it, lad, are you with us?"

His reply is to squeeze his eyes shut further, grimacing. There's a faint sound, but he gives a pained squeak at the way it vibrates in his sore throat and finds himself completely unable to make words from the noise. But he's stubborn and, opening his eyes to look up at Aramis in groggy confusion, tries again until he chokes out a mangled version of 'what happened?' that sounds like a foreign language.

Aramis, who he can only see behind a too-bright white mist that appears almost like a halo, looks worried but smiles anyway. It's anyone's guess if he understood the question itself or just knows d'Artagnan well enough to know it would be asked. "Athos distracted him," he says quietly, "but it still took me and Porthos some time to open the gate. You'd already gone so quiet, we thought..." he shakes his head, pushing the thought away, "But, apparently we're not to have any peace yet. You're tenacious as you are reckless, _chiot_."

d'Artagnan huffs, but is glad to still be alive even if incredibly sore. His chest aches and his throat feels like it should be bleeding, but the drums have slowed to a tolerable rhythm and his vision is slowly clearing. If he looks hard enough, he can see Porthos hovering nearby, cocky smirk hiding the concern he'd no doubt been wearing moments before. "A..." he swallows, "A...thos?"

"Tending to our _friend_ over there," Porthos answers, stepping nearer and looking so amused d'Artagnan wonders if he's missed some sort of joke. At his confusion, Porthos chuckles somewhat maliciously. "Knocked 'im out," he explains, "Wiv' a gun. _Through_ the gate, no less."

"Ah." d'Artagnan squirms, trying to find enough purchase to sit up. Aramis seems wary at first, but eventually takes his young friend's shoulders and pulls the Gascon up, though doesn't let go of him after. "_Easy_," the older man says slowly, "Don't over do it."

"_And_," Aramis interrupts when the boy opens his mouth again, "Stop trying to speak, you'll make it worse."

The Gascon, now leaned back against his friend's chest, scowls but does as he's told, not missing the raised eyebrows from Porthos.

"Oh, this is gonna be a _fun_ trip home," the big man says, eying d'Artagnan warily, "I hope you've got some paper, 'mis, else we'll never get 'im to shut up when 'is voice comes back."

"Maybe," Athos appears behind Porthos, looking exactly the same as he always does, save a little ruffled from their earlier activities, "Unable to speak, he'll actually _listen_ for once."

Remembering the "wait!" that he'd ignored, d'Artagnan drops his gaze when Aramis' gentle squeeze reminds him that arguing is futile and mostly impossible. There's a sound, and after a few moments he can see the boots that belong to the footsteps as Athos moves to stand in front of him. He cringes, expecting to see Athos' infamous scowl when the man kneels, but he doesn't yet know the older man well enough, despite their time together, to see anything but the usual impassiveness when he finally looks up.

"Don't," Athos says eventually, "do that again."

d'Artagnan nods as emphatically as he can, but it's mostly a formality. They both know this incident will be topped within a month at most.

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**This can also be called the Rowana Renee Sucks at Endings show. **

**Please cast your votes for either: buried, broken, bruised, branded, or beaten for letter B :D**


	2. Beaten, Buried, and Brother

**A/N: Oh, wow, thanks for all the favorites, follows, and especially the reviews, guys! It's very much appreciated!  
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**Last time I checked the votes, it looked pretty much even between beaten and buried, so this is what happened as a result. Hope you guys enjoy! Also, it's becoming quickly apparent that I in particular ship Aramis and d'Artagnan in a platonic, brotherly sort of way.  
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**Just so you know, attempting to just correct errors in this chapter while listening to Peter Hollens' Hallelujah and The Rains of Castamere was a poor life choice and netted another couple thousand words. And severe depression. :D**

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_~ B is for...Beaten, Buried, and Brother ~ _

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"Now that our little..._adventure_, is over" Aramis mused, glancing around the battlefield and swinging his sword in a few more graceful arcs just to ease the tension, "Does anyone see our friend? Anywhere?"

Porthos, releasing the now-limp bandit he'd been...Aramis would call it a _hug_, a very tight and deliberate hug that the flea-bitten honorless swine simply hadn't been ready for...choking, and turned, looking in all directions. "No hidin' places," he said softly, " 'nless they left 'im on the way here, made for th' woods...?"

The battlefield, as it so happened, was a literal field, wide and barren. Apart from stringy, gray-green blades of grass blowing ankle-high in the breeze, nothing grew here. It was a wasteland so far off the beaten path, it had been extremely difficult to find and, for many months, had apparently made a home for a nasty party of bandits whose many offenses were not limited to the sale of illegally obtained weapons.

Aramis shifted uneasily. Surely there was something they'd missed. "This can't be it," he insisted, "There aren't even any tents. They have to have kept everything _somewhere_, unless these were decoys-"

"They weren't decoys." Athos' voice was tight as he approached, hints of anger barely masked. He sheathed his weapon, lip curled in disgust. "One talked," he said in reply to his friends' confused expressions, "They've already moved everything."

"Moved?" it wasn't as much a question as a horrified denial. Aramis stepped closer, shaking his head. "What do you mean _moved_? Did he say where?"

The cold, fierce look in Athos' eyes told him everything he needed to know, though. Porthos swore loudly, a raw shout of anger, while Aramis could only stand numb, uncomprehending. He searched his friend's face intently, looking for anything that would melt the icy fingers working their way around his heart. But there was no such reassurance. Athos was grave, jaw set firm against grief for now, but his walls had begun to come down in recent months and couldn't be reconstructed so fast. He placed a gloved hand on Aramis' shoulder, head down and voice barely even a whisper when he could make himself say the words.

"Gone." the next wasn't a whisper, but a snarl, his fingers curling to make his grip almost painful. "_Sold_."

This brought a roar from Porthos, and nearly sent Aramis to his knees.

"But it isn't possible," he said breathlessly, "_d'Artagnan_-"

Athos let go of him with a quiet, agonized sound, and turned away. "Gone," he said again, but there was no conviction in it, "We got here _too late_."

Too late.

Aramis opened his mouth to speak, closed it again. The breath had turned hollow in his lungs, battered heart lurching in his chest. He stared unseeing after Athos, feeling the world grow small. There were no words, he couldn't..._too late_ was something that just didn't happen, irreparable now that it had. It was with no warning, no reason.

"How?" he finally choked out, hoarse and dry, "How could this have happened? Our information was good, we-"

"I don't _know_ how it happened!" Athos wheeled about to face him, dam breaking under the force of his yell and turning all that followed into a furious, broken torrent, "our informant lied to us, or was lied to. Someone changed their mind. They found out that d'Artagnan was-" he broke off, eyes distant when he realized his hands were fisted, clutching Aramis' shirt and shaking him just to relieve the pressure. After a long silence, he let go, groaning loud and wounded and running his hands through his hair as he tried to regain composure. "I don't know," he said again, quiet once more, "I don't...I don't know..."

Silence stretched between them, rigid with intense hurt made worse by confusion.

Somehow, they'd been beaten.

When they'd received the first reports of bandits terrorizing the roads, it had sounded like a simple task, but the further they'd investigated, the more a disturbing truth had begun to emerge. These men were organized, moving in packs to transport stolen goods and weapons to the enemies of France. They were ruthless, without mercy or pity, but there was a brotherhood about them. Not like the high _espirit de corps_ found in the musketeers, or the stronger, fiercer bond between the Inseparables and their brother by all but blood. This was something strange, pulsing hot and dangerous in the veins of men whose only goals were to take what they could for themselves and destroy whatever lay out of reach.

d'Artagnan had eagerly volunteered to infiltrate their number, anxious to prove his worth.

He was the only one, by then, who wouldn't be recognized as a musketeer, if only for the reason that he really _wasn't_ one. Yet. It was a hard-bought thing, but he'd taken heed of his experiences with Vadim and had used them to his advantage. Lying, the Inseparables knew, had never been his greatest strength, yet he had somehow played all the right notes and won over the right people, passed all the tests, and he'd been in.

The resulting flow of information had been invaluable, with d'Artagnan confirming everything that needed to be known and providing detailed intelligence about the bandits' schemes, their structure, even on individual members of their hierarchy, which he'd somehow kept above the bottom of. Over time, he managed to give them enough that the Inseparables were ready to move.

When d'Artagnan provided them with the planned date and location of an exchange- a massive collection of weaponry for a vast amount of Spanish gold- they'd begun preparations in earnest, and all communications had stopped.

They'd come to the stipulated place at the correct time, but had met with only around ten bandits and no exchange being made. It had been a quick fight, ending with a prisoner taken and questioned. He'd been reluctant to betray his companions, but had been persuaded with enough effort and had admitted to a secondary location, had reacted with enough surprise regarding d'Artagnan to convince them their friend was safe, had just been misinformed.

And then they'd come here and found the whole group waiting for them, coyotes with bared fangs thirsty for blood. There had been no time to notice how empty the field was save for the swarming bodies, no time to wonder where the weapons could possibly be kept in a place such as this. There was barely time to search each face to make sure they weren't killing d'Artagnan for a bandit while they were at it.

Eventually, when sweat and blood and battle gave the air a copper taste and a static texture, it was over. What bandits remained were scattering, chased down and combated until all was quiet. Athos had been locked in place by a skilled swordsman, both of them panting with exertion but neither able to win until at last Athos had brought the man down. Instead of begging for his life or making any last war, he'd leered up at the musketeer with a twisted grin, teeth stained red.

"Thank you for the _gift_," he'd spat, words halting Athos' blade and freezing his veins, "musketeer whelp fetched a better price than expected, even wiv' the _damages_."

If the man didn't hear Athos' heart pounding, it was a miracle. The sword at the man's throat shook, a new fury settling down, coiled around Athos' bones and aching with the strength of something he didn't dare name. "What do you mean?" he kept his voice low, maintaining the calm facade only by sheer force of will, "Speak, and you may be granted some undeserved leniency." He closed his eyes when the man kept silent, willing himself to stay still rather than split the bandit's throat. "What damages?"

The bandit looked up at him with such _glee_, such sadistic pleasure..."Betrayed us, didn't 'e? Had to, eh...make up fer it." he was quiet for a moment, reveling in the memory, "Thought it'd be a waste, too, that pretty face all torn apart...but buyers weren't feelin' too picky, said it saved time training th-"

His words were interrupted when Athos abandoned the sword, lunging for the man and pinning him down with his whole body, one hand at his throat and the other gripping his shoulder. "I'll ask you one more time," he threatened, eyes locked onto the man's wicked gaze, "what's been done with him? Where is he? Answer me, or I swear on your_ mother's bones_-"

The man laughed a grating, wheezing laugh that sounded like smoke and malice. "_Wiv_? Don't y' mean _to_? I dunno where Monsieur _took 'im_, but they're gone now, everythin' an' everyone."

Athos could feel his hands shaking, could feel a dark tide coming over him. His understanding of what this man was implying was too much, rushing in his mind like a storm, buffeting the walls he'd constructed there, terrible and destructive and utterly unstoppable. If d'Artagnan was lost, if what this man said was true, there would be almost no chance of finding him. With no clear direction to search, it would already be too late and the best, the _best_ he could hope for was that it had ended quickly in death, because what kind of life...?

"He was nineteen..." the words were out of his mouth before he realized he was speaking aloud, and the man gave another raucous laugh, beaming up at him with a knowing, rabid smile.

"I wouldn't worry about that," he mused, "we gave 'im plenty of _practice_ before-"

The musketeer's vision misted first red, then purple, then ugly black and he was aware of nothing until his chest hurt with the force of his ragged breathing, fists throbbing, and the bandit was utterly silent. When Athos brought himself under control, he saw the blood, the man's face...he stood unsteadily, lurching to the side and retrieving his sword from where it had fallen. Trying not to retch.

He'd wandered near aimlessly after that, until he'd come upon his friends, a weight like he'd never known crushing his shoulders. They still looked hopeful in the way he couldn't anymore, looking for their friend with concern but not the fear, the dread, that Athos now knew they should all be feeling.

Even now, when all of them _knew_, Aramis was in denial. He couldn't, _wouldn't_ accept it.

The stubborn Gascon farm boy who'd charged into their lives, ready but _so_ unprepared to take on them and the world, life ending in unimaginable hell because somehow they were _too late_.

"Athos, 'mis," Porthos called from some distance away, not a shout but a terse, anxious summons, "I found something."

He'd worked alone, taking the grim news and shoving it to some far part of his mind, unwilling to deal with it here and now. He'd stared over the forsaken field with an angry, but keen gaze. This was where his friend, his brother, had taken his last breaths of freedom? Porthos had let himself hate everything about the place, but hadn't let it shake him, not yet.

There wasn't much to see. The field stretched on for miles, windblown and open, interrupted here and there by little hills that were hardly more than bumps on the ground, until it reached a black line of distant forest just visible on the horizon. There was sparse shrubbery, twisted gray sticks jutting between blades of grass, with little more besides.

Porthos had walked, and walked, and walked. He hadn't meant to desert his comrades, but the pain was unbearable and they all had to deal with it however they could so they could get on with it and finish their task. Athos had secluded himself with his thoughts more than once in the past, and however he knew Aramis was hurting, Porthos felt he had to do the same now, else he'd take it out on someone and he'd break something precious.

So he'd walked.

And then he'd found it, a musty-smelling dark patch amid the grass.

Freshly turned earth.

It was a grave.

Aramis moved mechanically, followed by a disinterested Athos, but they both stiffened at the sight, exchanging wary glances and horrified at the stirring feeling of _relief_ that this morbid discovery was conjuring.

"You think..." Aramis swallowed around the thickness of his voice, "You think it was a lie? That they just killed him?"

Athos grit his teeth, turning away. "They wouldn't have taken the time to bury him. It isn't their way."

But Porthos was staring at the marred ground with such intensity, such quiet resolve, that it was no surprise when, wordlessly, he dropped to his knees and started to dig. Despite Athos' protests, Aramis joined him within seconds. It was an awful thing to think their young companion was dead, but the not knowing was worse, and it was clear which fate was better.

So, as much as they dreaded what they'd find, they persisted.

It seemed to take hours, and eventually even Athos joined them, pale in his grief. The three of them made even, if slow progress, and it became apparent that something was wrong. As the dirt was cleared away, something did become visible, but it wasn't a body.

It was a narrow trap door, the hinges and handle caked with dirt. Knocking on its surface revealed a hollow space beneath, and the three men stopped breathing for a moment.

Porthos was the first to reach for the handle, heart pounding a painful rhythm inside of him. At first, he thought it was locked, but one firm pull loosened the dirt, a second eased the door free. It swung open, revealing a drop down into darkness. If there had been a ladder, it was gone, but-

Athos gave a startled cry while Aramis recited a prayer in such a rush that the words blended together. Porthos merely hung his head.

There wasn't much daylight left, but there was enough, they could see everything that mattered.

Porthos shut his eyes, gripping Aramis' shoulder in silent condolence. The grip was returned, half-hearted but sincere, as the sharpshooter paused in his frantic murmurings to give his companions a desperate, pleading look. "Let's get him out?" now his voice was steady, if raw, "He deserves better."

Athos hesitated, not wanting to see any closer. There was so much _red_, even from where they were, a new feeling of sick grief welling from where bitter relief had washed away his earlier fear. But he eventually nodded, unable to deny the request because he knew the truth in it. They couldn't leave their little brother down there, abandoned in the dark. They'd give him as proper a burial as they could before making the somber journey home.

"I'll do it," they all volunteered at once, and after a moment all three of them exchanged a look of agreement.

Porthos and Aramis waited at the top while Athos, steeled for the worst, lowered himself through the door. The drop was just short enough that, working together, they could retrieve their friend.

Up close, Athos was staggered by the confirmation that this was indeed their little brother.

He was lying face down, stripped to the waist and still. His back was torn, heavily bruised from what must have been a brutal lashing. The marks were broad and long, some raised welts and some that were no more than streaks of blood staining tan skin.

So much blood.

Athos knelt slowly beside his fallen brother, running a hand through the familiar dark hair with a soft sigh. "Ah, lad," he whispered, "I'm sorry."

Sorry for what? Everything. He knew, logically, that there was nothing he could've done. d'Artagnan had volunteered for this, had gone willingly and had been happy to do it. He'd known the risk, as all of them had, but there had been no way of knowing it would come to this; a pitiful end left alone and broken in the dark and damp. He was sorry for feeling so relieved that d'Artagnan was here, dead but not sold into a world that would've destroyed him.

He was sorry.

By the time he could move, he knew Aramis and Porthos were worried about how long it was taking, but there was something so disturbing about the stillness. d'Artagnan wasn't a child, but he was young. He'd always been impatient, reckless, full of naive energy. He tossed and turned in his sleep worse than Aramis, had never been so _motionless_.

Athos finally pulled his hand back from d'Artagnan's hair, reaching instead to take off his cloak, spreading it carefully on the ground. He couldn't help groaning when he gently turned the boy over onto his battered back. His torso was littered with dark bruises, livid red in wide strips. Something blunt, then, tearing the skin only from what must have felt like endless repetition. Marks that could've been from claws trailed down his arms, dark at the edges and clustered at his shoulders. He'd been held down, still fighting, and had been struck again, and again, and _again_...

Worse was his face, both eyes nearly black and a gash on one cheek that that had to be bone deep. Blood surrounded his mouth from a split lip, bitten clean through. It wasn't so bad as Athos had expected from the bandit's words, but the damage was severe and it made him burn to see it, to look over the injuries and wonder how long it must have taken, if he'd felt everything or if he'd been unconscious before the end, whose cruel, leering face had been the last he'd seen.

He shook himself free of the forming downward spiral, instead willing himself to continue. Aramis and Porthos continued their weary vigil above while Athos pulled the cloak around his young friend with the air of a father tucking in a child for the night, securing the blue fabric with unsteady hands. After another moment of hesitation, he leaned down, one hand at either side of d'Artagnan's face, and pressed a lingering kiss to the boy's forehead. His body rocked with the force of a sob he didn't have the strength to contain, and he found himself saying it again.

"I'm sorry. Thomas, I'm _sorry_..."

There was a brief moment of realizing his mistake, of letting himself go almost limp at the suddenness of the thoughts that took him to a place with no light, no sound other than blood roaring in his ears, memory and reality entwining until he could stand it no more.

And then he felt the warm, shallow breath on his face.

Athos stiffened, waiting, hardly daring to believe he hadn't imagined it.

Such a long time crept by, seconds that stretched nearly into minutes, that he started to accept it again, the reality of death, but then it was there again, feather-lite and _real_, and he made himself look down despite every nerve in his body screaming at him that it was folly, that it was too much to hope for. He braced himself for the shattering of that fragile hope, eyes shut tight to shield him from the truth.

"What is it, 'thos?" Porthos called down, gruff and _ready_ if there was any threat he needed to be aware of, "Something wrong?"

"Other than the obvious..." Aramis muttered, but held his sword at a prepared angle and put a hand to the gun at his hip.

Athos didn't answer, save to shake his head in pure denial. There was no way, there was just...he forced himself to look, his own faltering breath heavy enough to mask the fleeting whisper he'd felt.

d'Artagnan's eyes were open. Listless, unfocussed, without so much as a flicker of recognition, but they were _open_.

And completely wild with barely suppressed fear.

Athos watched, stricken, as the fear became something else. d'Artagnan gasped, eyes going impossibly wide, and he began to struggle. He could barely move for injury and pain, but fought with the strength of a cornered animal, a ragged sound coming from his throat until it escalated into a scream. Aramis and Porthos were frozen in shock above, fixated on what was happening but unable to do anything from their vantage point.

The transition from the horror and shock and relief and confusion and _no_ to something more familiar, something that Athos could manage, happened in a split second, and Athos gripped d'Artagnan's shoulders, forcing him back down when he tried to sit up. Athos knew what to do with this, for now. He'd faced deeply wounded comrades, friends before. Regardless of any horrors faced, this was familiar in a way he could handle. It was an automatic response: restrain, reassure, _rescue_.

"d'Artagnan," he said urgently, "d'Artagnan, _listen to me_. It's over." he ran a hand frantically through the boy's hair, willing him to _calm_, but d'Artagnan's eyes squinted shut, a further pained yowl like a knife in Athos' heart. "_Easy_!" the older man insisted, "I have you, it's me..."

d'Artagnan's back arched as he flailed, hands finding their way out of the cloak to push at Athos' chest, fighting for his life. Aramis was shouting, calling instructions now that the situation was one he knew how to deal with. Aramis was the medic among them, after all, but was out of reach until Athos could make d'Artagnan remember him.

He took hold of the boy's wrists as gently as he could, forcing them down to either side of his friend's head and making himself ignore the panic that elicited. He stopped speaking, stopped trying to break through the delirium with words, but d'Artagnan kicked and twisted, face wet and screams trailing off into something like sobs.

Athos gave up, let go of him, and when d'Artagnan jerked violently upright, scrabbling even in his terror for the knife the musketeer wore, Athos slipped an arm around him, dragging the frantic boy nearer and pinning him against his chest, one hand tangling in his hair and the other gripping him tight.

d'Artagnan continued struggling madly, giving a long and repeated keening whine as Athos muttered, unsure of exactly what he was saying but babbling anything that came to mind in a rough but gentle tone, over and over until d'Artagnan's hands curled, returning Athos' grip with surprising strength, and he gave another choked cry, chest heaving and whole body trembling with tension.

"_Athos_?"

The musketeer could've laughed in relief at the voice. It was high with disbelief and hope, scared certainly but, Athos noted with a tentative, but genuine smile, not the least broken.

"And Aramis, and Porthos," he replied, carefully lowering him to look him in the eyes, "We found you."

d'Artagnan's eyes drifted shut, but he breathed a little easier. He was still shaking, but the tension was melting away with the realization that it was over. "Knew...knew you would," he panted, whimpering, "They said you wouldn't but I knew you would..."

Athos felt a slight chill at just how close the boy had come to being abandoned just like his captors had said, but d'Artagnan didn't need to know about that right now. It was more important to reassure him that all was well and get him out of here so his injuries could be tended. Once he was safe, they could worry about any other fallout from his time alone with the bandits, something Athos wasn't looking forward to.

"Listen," he said, "you're safe now. I'm going to get you out of here, but you have to tell me, is it safe to move you?"

"Is he alright?" Aramis called, he and Porthos hovering near the entrance with twin expressions of concern and exhilarating relief. d'Artagnan inhaled sharply at the voice, blinking rapidly and tilting his head back in attempt to see. Athos looked up, not quite smiling but nodding confirmation, "He's...not fine, but he's with us." turning his attention back to his injured friend, "can you be moved?"

d'Artagnan nodded stiffly, loosening his grip on Athos' tunic. "Yes," he mumbled, "i's not that bad...jus' _hurts_..." The last came in such a tone that Athos' heart jolted, anger rising again like a pillar of smoke for the men who'd done this. He could imagine plenty of what had happened, but there was enough that he didn't know, unwanted thoughts swirling tauntingly through his mind, to make every pained sound a serrated blade to him.

"Right," he forced his mind to be quiet. Those were things that could be dealt with later. "I'll have to lift you, try to keep still-"

"Wait-" d'Artagnan looked at him again, with the ferocity of _will_ that the Inseparables had come to admire, frowning in a way that held Athos' gaze with his own. "There's something...you have to know-"

"Shh, _later_," this wasn't something that he needed right now. Athos started to pick him up, ignoring protests and mindful of his injured back, but d'Artagnan wouldn't stop until Athos paid him the attention he asked for. Dark brown eyes burned into his, and he could see that d'Artagnan was fighting for the words, some nightmare playing through the boy's memory and presenting itself as an urgent need to be known.

"_Later_," he said again, and d'Artagnan gave him a sad look, but conceded.

It took some maneuvering, given d'Artagnan's injuries, but Athos was able to lift him carefully to Porthos' and Aramis' waiting arms. They'd barely restrained themselves from joining the two below, but that restraint was gone the moment they held their friend. Alive, _safe_. It was almost too much. d'Artagnan kept his eyes shut, but came as close as he could to tackling Porthos in a hug the moment the big man's arms were around him.

"Careful, lad," Porthos whispered into his hair, and d'Artagnan mumbled ascent.

Athos pulled himself up slowly, all but collapsing when he cleared the trap door, but sat up quickly to help Aramis. The man still looked shell-shocked, reaching for d'Artagnan with the air of a drowning man grabbing for a lifeline. "Porthos," he said hoarsely, "Give me him...Porthos..." the musketeer didn't protest, easing d'Artagnan into Aramis waiting embrace without a fight.

The darker musketeer was laughing, then, eyes shining with mirth. There was no humor in it, just irrepressible relief that everyone would be coming home after all. "Nine lives, you've got," he exclaimed, shaking his head in disbelief, "Not th' best luck t' go wiv it, but nine lives nonetheless."

Aramis made a strange sound, holding d'Artagnan as close as he dared and mentally reciting every prayer of thanks he knew.

"I'm sorry, 'mis," the boy ducked his head, pressing his face to Aramis' shoulder, "I'm sorry."

The medic just focused on reassuring himself that their young friend was alive and...not unharmed, but it was nothing so grievous as he'd had to believe until that moment. Athos let him keep it, gripping his arm in quiet support before moving away to give him space. "Don't be," Aramis answered, "Just be here."

d'Artagnan nodded earnestly, thoroughly exhausted.

Porthos and Athos eventually went to find the horses- and the supplies they carried- unwilling to travel until daylight allowed d'Artagnan's injuries to be better assessed. By the time they'd set up a makeshift camp and gotten d'Artagnan as relatively clean as possible given the conditions, all four of them had relaxed considerably. d'Artagnan wasn't entirely lucid, but was able to explain in snatches some of what had happened despite their trying to put off the stressing details until later.

The gash on his cheek needed sewing, along with most of the tears across his back and chest. The majority of needlework would wait for morning, as Aramis didn't want a rushed job in half light and flickering flame to make things worse.

"What was this?" Aramis finally asked softly, looking away when d'Artagnan squirmed under eye contact. He was looking at the wide, red-tinted bruises, prodding carefully in search of broken ribs beneath. The younger took a deep, shuddering breath, eyes eventually drifting to Porthos, as if looking for permission. Athos was kneeling behind him, holding him under each arm for support until Aramis finished."My sword..." he answered at length, gaze flicking back to Aramis' face, "He said-"

The man held up a hand for silence, eyes narrowed for the bandit's cruelty but expression soft for d'Artagnan. "I don't need to know what he said yet, unless you need to tell someone."

d'Artagnan offered a thin smile, nodding once as a good deal of tension left him.

He didn't see the murderous look that went between Athos and Porthos.

They were all thankful when it turned out a lot of the blood covering d'Artagnan wasn't his own, but had actually come from a number of the bandits who'd attacked him once his purpose among them had been discovered. According to the snatches of story he was able to tell them, the leader- called nothing other than Monsieur by his followers- hadn't even been testing him with the first location he'd heard of. They'd only gone elsewhere due to a last minute change of plans, and when the men who'd stayed behind on other business had been discovered by musketeers, it had been a simple matter of time before Monsieur had realized his men weren't returning.

Not a single man had escaped suspicion, but d'Artagnan was the newest among them and therefore the most easily doubted. The test to prove his fealty had been long and painful. Unlike Vadim, who'd intended only to frighten him with a threat, Monsieur hadn't been bluffing and had provided sport for his followers by delivering a slow beating. d'Artagnan had passed the test, but the compromise for not finding the traitor was for Monsieur to abandon the plan entirely, escaping in the process. Stalling for time on the belief that the Inseparables wouldn't be long in coming, d'Artagnan had admitted to being the traitor.

What had followed hadn't been a test at all, but an enraged attack from anyone who could reach him. He'd intentionally made it worse, buying time by infuriating them further and fighting until he'd been unable to continue.

He'd been left abruptly when the musketeers had arrived, but not before Monsieur had assured him of a slow death, alone and never to be found.

Aramis bit his lip, glancing to Porthos in a wordless flash of horror at what could have been. If he hadn't found what they'd thought was a grave...he shivered, placing a hand on d'Artagnan's head and offering a breathless smile. "Well," if his voice shook, let d'Artagnan put it up to tiredness, "He was wrong."

Time passed in silence while Aramis did what he could with the quickly fading light. "That's it," he said eventually, sitting back, "I don't think you're bleeding internally, but we'll keep an eye on you tonight and find you something for the pain in the morning."

Porthos was sitting down, then, waiting by the fire, and Aramis leaned back against him. Athos moved d'Artagnan slowly, turning him around and propping him against Aramis to keep pressure off his likely cracked ribs. Normally, the medic would've advised lying on his belly to avoid aggravating his back, but it couldn't be helped and he was too worn out to mind.

"There," Athos said quietly, tucking a blanket around his friends before moving to sit between Aramis and Porthos, "that alright for now?"

d'Artagnan nodded wearily from his place. "You don't have anything now?" he asked hopefully, eyes over-bright but closing fast. Aramis flinched litely, but pulled d'Artagnan a little closer.

"We won't travel until morning," he reminded, "But when we'll stay in the first town until you're better recovered.

The Gascon didn't reply for a long minute, but eventually breathed a deep sigh. "I knew you were coming," he repeated, words running together, "they said you weren't, but..."

Athos and Porthos moved wordlessly closer, the three older men forming a shield of sorts. It would likely be a long, uncomfortable night for all four, but they'd weather it and soon the whole ordeal would be little more than a memory.

"Sleep, _chiot_," Aramis murmured soothingly as full darkness fell, "Your brothers are here."

* * *

**And so concludes another episode of Rowana Sucks at Endings. **

**Seriously, this one was originally supposed to go in a funny direction, but the first part made me decide against doing too much mood whiplash, so this is what happened. I'm maliciously hoping it was a feel trip. :3**

**Options for C, both of which will have varying degrees of humor.  
**

**1\. Cracked, a direct follow-up to this one. **

**2\. Concussed. **


	3. Concussed

**A/N: First, ARG FORTY REVIEWS ON TWO CHAPTERS I FEEL SO WARM AND FUZZY. *Purrs* Thank you so much! Everyone who reviewed, favorited, followed! Eek! I love this fandom. *Tears of joy*  
**

**Second, I AM A TERRIBLE PERSON. It's official. The majority of votes went to a follow up for last chapter, but for some reason it just wouldn't go, so in order to get anything posted in the near future, here's Concussed instead. At some point, I'lla just go back and edit Beaten and Buried to include everything that would've been in the follow-up. (Editing is my addiction anyway, so)  
**

**One more thing is that my interpretations of these characters don't feel completely comfortable for me yet, so if anyone has any critiques at all of any sort, please beat me over the head with them so adjustments can be made :D As it is, this one is probably going to be among the most..._slapstick_ of all chapters in this little series. **

* * *

_~ C is for...Concussed ~  
_

* * *

_Part one of Two_

* * *

d'Artagnan is the closest to him when the man starts to run again, so it's only natural that he should be the first to give chase.

If it occurs to him at all that this is familiar and_ no, d'Artagnan, very bad, don't do again_, he pushes that aside. If he sees the leaning shack beneath the trees that, really, is little more than a pile of barely-connected sticks, it doesn't register. The swinging door that looks like it's about to go flying serves only to stir a feeling of triumph. Unless there's a second door, his quarry is running himself into a corner! A foolish move, considering it would've been faster to just run around the...can it be called a 'building'?

One foot is nearly to the threshold when the voice reaches his ears.

"d'Artag_nan_!"

To his credit, he stops _before_ the gravelly "_Wait_!", even if momentum does nearly send him sprawling through the door anyway. He wobbles unsteadily for a few seconds until he can get the other foot down, turning to see Porthos jogging to catch up, look of _don't do it_ written plainly across his dark features. _If_ he considers, for a split second, going in anyway- after all there won't be a gate between him and his comrade this time, just a rickety old door at most, what's the worst that could happen?- it is _only_ for a split second.

Instead, he nods briefly and straightens, waiting the few seconds for his friend to draw level. Porthos, he thinks, looks a little surprised. He's honestly quite proud of himself.

If, for a split second, he sees Porthos' eyes widen and his lips move in the beginning of a warning, it is _only_ for a split second.

Because then something crashes into him so hard that his vision flickers black, and there's a single, swelling pulse of _pain, _and he isn't completely sure if it's followed or preceded by the thunderous, rattling sound jarring through his skull. A violent shove, and he's falling...

* * *

Really, given how nice and _peaceful_ the last couple of days have been, he should've known to expect this.

It hasn't been long since three suddenly became four, but already it's rare for that number to be pared down. When Treville had suggested this mission, a simple find-and-retrieve- of a slimy fellow whose presence had been 'requested' by the Cardinal- Porthos' first thought had been that he and Aramis would spend the easy trip enjoying friendly banter and each others' company in general.

Then Treville had told him of his idea that d'Artagnan could come with him instead, and that had been even better.

For all that friendship had been quick to form, in the months since he'd met him, Porthos had yet to spend much time alone with the "lively little bugger" who'd even gotten past Athos' defenses. This would be a simple, easy trip there and back, a chance to get to know the Gascon better and maybe teach him a few more tricks before they returned. (He and Aramis had, it seemed, entered into a one-upping contest, with Porthos imparting his knowledge of mildly dirty but effective staying-alive methods while the sharpshooter attempted to pass on his extensive knowledge of charm and the art of wooing. Given the _astounding knack_ for_ subtlety_ d'Artagnan has been displaying ever since they met, Porthos will never be convinced he _isn't_ winning this contest.)

All in all, the first part of the trip had gone as expected. d'Artagnan was eager as always to assist and, since there was very little chance of anyone being captured, shot, poisoned, strangled, tortured for any reason, or of a sudden plague coming on, the day-and-a-half on the road had been spent free of tension as the two engaged in lighthearted conversation as well as a decent share of antics that were, for once, of a non-life-threatening variety.

And then they'd found their man.

Monsieur Luc Pascal had been expecting their arrival, seemingly for some time if his wild eyes, overgrown tangle of gray hair- "_see, joli garçon, that's what _you're_ gonna look like in a few years if you're not careful," "Please, Porthos, you're the one with the _braid_,"_\- and nervous, disheveled bearing were anything to go by. d'Artagnan and Porthos weren't privy to what exactly this man had done to attract the Cardinal's..._discerning_...attention, but apparently _he_ knew well enough himself to be frightened.

So, when a perfectly charming and friendly musketeer showed up at his door with a _perfectly_ nice and _polite_ not-quite musketeer in tow, Luc did the only reasonable thing that came to mind.

He ran for the woods, leaving d'Artagnan and Porthos staring after him.

Really, the resulting chase had felt a bit like trying to run down a squirrel.

And what a chase it had been. If Porthos had noticed the gray-wooded old shack the three of them ran past at least four times within the space of a few minutes- original thought amended, he rather thought it was like chasing a rabbit, the way the little man darted to and fro, zigzagging over damp leaves and uneven terrain like he was made for it- it didn't seem to factor as an important part of proceedings.

It wasn't until d'Artagnan nearly killed himself that the chase came to a stop.

Luc was running them in merry circles, all three beginning to tire, but Porthos had to admit being impressed with his Gascon whelp. It was akin to watching a bloody _fox_, a very determined fox that was absolutely _going_ to catch its rabbit. Every time the rabbit changed direction, the fox was barely a heartbeat behind, never breaking stride for more than a few seconds and even preempting a few evasive maneuvers until the rabbit found itself unexpectedly cornered.

Then d'Artagnan's boots lost traction on the leaves and he somehow remained on his feet during the entirety of the rolling slide that had him colliding with the rabbit, knocking them both down in a spray of musty plant-life and curses.

Porthos had strongly considered applauding, but it seemed more prudent to make sure d'Artagnan hadn't broken his neck- or Luc's, if the flailing limbs were any sign of what was happening- and had made his way over, unable to help the smirk tugging at his lips. That had been their requisite dose of absolutely uncalled for excitement, now they could truss the slick rabbit up and have fun teasing their way back to Paris.

Except that, as d'Artagnan rolled back to his feet, shaking debris from his hair and pulling Luc with him, the tenacious and, admittedly, annoying little pest shoved the Gascon hard enough to knock him off balance, taking off like a shot immediately after.

d'Artagnan wasn't having it, and was after him in a split second, following close on the man's heels.

Porthos followed, boots pounding a steady rhythm on the forest floor, and noted dimly that _there was that shack again_. The rabbit had already disappeared through the swinging, loosely hinged door, and d'Artagnan was barreling after him with just enough of a completely insane gait that Porthos found his memory drawn to a recent incident, less than three full weeks ago.

It occured to him that, should his Gascon make it through that door, it would be just their luck for it to swing shut and happen to have a working lock, leaving Porthos to try kicking it down while only hoping d'Artagnan wasn't being somehow brutally murdered on the other side.

As _likely_ as that was, he still wasn't fond of those odds. Anyone else, he would've trusted probability, but stranger things had happened.

"d'Artag_nan_!" he calls, half expecting the attempt to be utterly futile, "wait!"

Porthos is actually shocked when d'Artagnan stops after hearing his name called, even more surprised when the boy turns to look at him, adapting a ready stance but making no further move to follow Luc into the decaying cabin. He owes Aramis on a bet. There can, apparently, be miracles. The musketeer picks up speed as he gets closer. They'll go in together, he thinks; two against one might not be polite but it'll work and everyone can leave alive, and he can tell Athos that he's the first one to get their young colt to listen. This is a serious achievement. He isn't sure whether to be prouder of d'Artagnan or himself.

He doesn't have long to ponder those intricacies, however, because the rabbit has emerged from the dark shed holding a thick wooden board as long as Porthos' arm and it's swinging in a violent arch for his friend's head, and he can hear the resounding _CRACK! _before the warning leaves his mouth. d'Artagnan's head snaps to one side with such force this time Porthos really is worried about him having a broken neck, and he's boneless at Luc's feet before either man can take another step.

When Luc runs again, Porthos faces an agonizing decision that only takes up the space of a moment but feels longer. Stay with d'Artagnan, who's crumpled in an unmoving heap by the door and looks disturbingly _not alive_, or finish the mission and chase the rabbit down.

If the choice is made for him when the boy twitches, ever so slightly, and makes a sound that translates from a confused murmur to _alive, head nearly knocked off but alive, get 'im 'thos, _he isn't _fully_ aware of basing his decision on that factor, but casts his Gascon a brief look of apology before tearing after the rabbit like a pack of wolves contained in one man.

As it so happens, any serious effort to decapitate a person with a wooden board takes up a lot of strength, a fact which is proven by Luc's inability to continue leading his wild chase for much longer afterward.

It is _so_ satisfying, Porthos thinks, to tackle the little nuisance.

He is a bit disappointed when Luc yields almost immediately- being pinned down by a Porthos who now has a reason for things to be personal, as it turns out, is a very, very strong motivation for complete surrender since he's rather fond of his face the way it is- but wastes no time in hauling the sniveling fellow to his feet and binding his wrists, snarling threats of somewhat uncouth sorts the whole while.

All in all, it isn't long before they're walking back to the shed, and Porthos makes sure to inflict appropriate levels of mental anguish before they get there.

"If he isn't breathin'," he whispers low and frighteningly calmly in Luc's ear, "when we get there...well, let's just say you were supposed t' have two guards on the way back. If we're down t' one," Luc's eyes are the size of saucers at this point, and Porthos pats his shoulder a little too hard for it to be comforting, "well, then, I can't guarantee yer' safety, can I? And won't be responsible for your fate."

The charming grin clashes horribly with the amount of menace he allows into his tone. "You follow?"

Judging by the stream of apologies that accompany him to the shack, Luc does.

* * *

The first thing he's aware of is that he does _not_ want to be awake. His head feels like it's being repeatedly slammed into a wall. His stomach is protesting vehemently to the rocking of the deck. Why did he ever let himself be convinced to board a ship? If the white spikes of lightning flashing behind his eyes are any indication, it's storming. He's being tossed hither and thence and he wasn't aware ships could turn _over_ and _over_ and _over_ and _over_ without drowning their passengers. The horse is feeling extremely temperamental today, bucking like a feral thing in attempt to send him flying, but he's stubborn and even though there's nobody watching he refuses to be thrown. The deck is pitching much too fiercely and it's hard enough not to roll straight off without all these distractions-

Wait.

_Ship_? What ship, when has he ever...?

d'Artagnan groans. Life is presently much too confusing and opening his eyes feels like a terrible idea so that's completely out of the question as far as finding out what's going on. Something is _insistently_ tapping his face, a distorted murmur reaching his ringing ears. Probably _père_ because now he's overslept and it's time to get up and _work_, but he does not want to be awake now or probably ever again and anyway he can't right now because everything is moving in a way that is definitely not right.

"Hnn..." if any effort is made to actually move, it gets him nowhere. One hand maybe twitches slightly before he completely gives up this useless endeavor. "_S'il vous plaît arrêtez , _papa_..." _Even in his state of inexplicable delirium- could he have caught something? Is he dying? Perhaps whatever the last thing he did was a bad idea. He'll be sure to tell the person who obviously warned him against it that they were right, if he survives- he scowls in absolute disgust at the way his voice, raspy and small, is more of a pitiful mew than anything else.

Athos would be furious. Aramis and Porthos would probably just make fun of him. Most women would probably swoon but that really isn't the kind of attention he's after just at the moment...

There's a sharper tap to his face that feels more like a smack thanks to his splitting skull. That was not friendly. That was not kind. Brothers do not do that to their brothers.

"_Hey_," the voice drags him up through a swirling sea of black and confusion. He knows that voice. It's Porthos. Constance will be angry with him if he ever actually wakes up. All these musketeers barging into her house at random intervals. Bonacieux can't be happy about it either, considering that d'Artagnan and all his friends are better looking than him. It must be unnerving. d'Artagnan should apologize for being so inconsiderate of that poor man's feelings- "hey." this time Porthos really _did_ smack him, he thinks, according to the reflexive yelp that's like being hit over the head with a window, "d'_Artagnan_. You try'na come back?"

_No_.

His eyes slide open against his better judgement and he is _not_ responsible for the sound he makes when all that light and those blue spots swarm him. He's encountered nests of aggravated hornets with better hospitality. Now awake- unfortunately- he finds that breathing is a necessary yet highly unpleasant exercise. As is existing in general. It should not be possible for this much _pain_ to be concentrated in one place.

When he works up the wherewithal to speak, he does find himself surprisingly coherent.

"_Urrrrrgh_..."

It was a worthy effort.

His eyes blink open again- why won't they stay shut? He'd _really_ like to go back to sleep- and this time there's something other than a shadowy figure blocking out most of the searing light. There's something touching him. Fabric? Could be a hat. Maybe he'd win more fights if he had one of those...for a moment, he thinks the man-shaped shadow looming over him might be death and is a little disturbed by how undisturbed he is at the thought. As long as the headache goes away, he really doesn't care at this point...but then the shadow splits into three blurry Porthos-es, all hazy and out of focus but definitely smiling down at him, and that actually frightens him a bit more than the other thing.

Attempts to convey this are instantly deeply regretted.

"Yeah," the voice is soft and warm and relieved and entirely too loud, "there you are. You with me now?"

_Absolutely not_.

Yet something clicks into place before d'Artagnan can prevent it and he really does _try_ to make himself focus. Vague memories are chasing away his confused thoughts and replacing them with a patchwork version of _why_ exactly he feels worse than if he'd been murdered. But there are more questions than answers and now that he thinks about it odds are they're both in serious trouble and there's a slight chance that it might be his fault, but he isn't completely certain and Porthos looks like he wants some kind of confirmation that d'Artagnan is at least somewhat lucid right now.

He's an idiot, and tries nodding. Screaming is briefly considered, but he kind of thinks that would make things worse and so settles for closing his eyes aga-

"d'Artagnan, don't do that," Porthos' voice could be coming from underwater, and d'Artagnan wants to yell at him to _stop it, that hurts_, but resistance just makes everything hurt more, so he's essentially trapped and Porthos continues tapping his face. "d'Artagnan,_ look at me_. You have to stay awake. C'mon..."

It takes an incredible effort, but he finally forces his eyes open again to find only one blurry Porthos above him.

At least that's one thing he doesn't have to worry about.

The furious pain is dying down to a manageable level now that the light is blocked out. There is still an unusual amount of stars, many of them odd-colored and somehow moving. He isn't used to that, especially since the sun is still shining as best he can tell. But once again his friend seems to be waiting for an answer of some sort. He swallows thickly, gathering reserves of will he didn't know he had but is pretty sure shouldn't be required for speaking.

"P'rthos...?" is as far as he gets before choking.

It's as if he's just declared undying love. Porthos' grin broadens and, while concern is still evident in his expression, there's also relief, and d'Artagnan is slightly jealous when the man nods without wishing he hadn't. "Yeah, tha's right." the bigger man answers, "Nice t'see you too." he pauses like something just occured to him, and a small frown begins to form, "d'you know where you are?"

d'Artagnan blinks, breathing in slowly, before frowning as well. Now that things are beginning to come back into focus, he can tell that he's lying down on something hard but damp. Curling a gloved hand into a fist- small victories are, as it turns out, extremely important- yields a handful of something that feels like dirt, maybe leaves. The ground. A few gnarled roots digging into his back...There's also a distinctly musty, pine-like smell, along with-

Oh.

That shed, where who knew _what_ had gone in and never come out again. Ah, he wishes he hadn't noticed that.

The forest, the mission, chasing that depraved little rabbit to kingdom come and back and managing not to hurl himself headlong into danger after being warned not to. That's a...is it a first? No, surely not. Maybe a second? Still, pausing, waiting for the sane course of action, that's an impressive feat for him. He should be proud. This means he doesn't have to apologize for being an idiot again which is certainly a relief.

What isn't a relief is that now that he remembers chasing the little rabbit, he also realizes that that same rabbit must be what knocked him down for he isn't sure how long and that that means-

"Oi, oi, settle down, d'Artagnan," Porthos warns because apparently he either managed to babble some of that aloud or just looked sufficiently panicked for the musketeer to guess his thoughts. "I caught 'im an' he's sulkin' about it right now."

d'Artagnan finds his eyes drawn to a spot over Porthos' shoulder, where he actually can see that damn rabbit hovering in the background, looking strangely contrite. Looking back to Porthos, the question must be obvious, because the man actually laughs.

"Luc an' I," Porthos clarifies, "We 'ad a little _chat_ after 'e put ya down, right, Luc?"

The man sniffs and mumbles something d'Artagnan is half convinced is an obscenity.

Porthos gives a triumphant chuckle, shaking his head. "Yeah, our little _friend_ won't be anymore trouble on the way back." he sobers quickly, expression turning sincere and completely serious. "But you remember everythin', right?"

The younger man hesitates, memory still not whole and certainly not in complete order. For the most part, he thinks he has it, except forming words is a monumental task and his head hurts too much even though it isn't as bad as it was. Mostly, he just wants to sleep until the ground stops shaking and everything feels normal again. He must've almost slipped back into unconsciousness, because it isn't until Porthos' continued prompting that he finally replies.

"Many chasing," he murmurs, eyes drifting shut, "such forest...very _hurt_..."

Porthos is blatantly unimpressed and looks more apologetic than the Gascon has seen in a while after forcing him to open his eyes again. "You got a nasty concussion, 'tagnan," he says gently, "An' I don't wanna make ya walk, but..."

And he does understand, even though the thought of tromping through the woods for however long it'll take to reach town is not one he enjoys contemplating. Camping wouldn't normally be an unusual practice, but being injured makes finding actual shelter before nightfall the better option. It still takes him an age to agree.

"Yeah," he croaks, finally managing to raise one hand to his brow. He doesn't want to think about why it feels sticky. "town is safer_."  
_

Porthos purses his lips and slips an arm under d'Artagnan's shoulders, easing him into a sitting position before he can protest. "Sorry," he grunts, "necessary evil." Somehow, the big man is oblivious to the way the entire world flips and spins at the motion, and d'Artagnan isn't sure how they both don't go tumbling into the sea of blending colors and blurring lines.

By the time Porthos gets him to his feet, d'Artagnan is already regretting seeing the sense of town. Everything is flashing and there's a noise and spots of light and the strangest sensation that he's just been completely submersed in mud. His heart is functioning like a hammer and he's convinced he can actually hear it while he's being yanked back and forth.

He really doesn't want to know the accurate measure for how pathetic he looks when he looks up at Porthos, whose expression turns out to be somewhere between amused at his misery- the man has a streak of _pure evil_ running through him sometimes- and sympathetic concern.

"If i's any comfort," the musketeer says, voice low, "you're actually doin' pretty great, all things considered."

"_Mm_...P'rthos..." his head lolls and technically speaking the man is the only thing holding him up right now. He opens and closes his eyes a little harder than intended, watching disinterestedly while everything continues to shift at varying speeds. "don't feel...quite well..."

Porthos looks for a moment like he's going to make a sarcastic comment about the likelihood of feeling well with a concussion, but winds up swearing instead when d'Artagnan is suddenly and violently sick.

He will _never_ go sailing again, and he's sure Constance will agree.

* * *

**Concussed will return for a part two a few chapters from now.**

**Voting may now commence for D, and I promise three times not to ignore votes this time. Do we want:**

**Depressed**  
**Deaf**  
**or**  
**Dangling?**

**As always, feel free to leave suggestions for any letter (You can have my firstborn niece or nephew if it's a prompt for the upcoming E, X, or Z in particular) or just give me a scenario and I'll find a letter to fit it :D **

**(Quick note of apologies for probably butchering French, but have had two wonderful offers for help with that so maybe it will get better. Translations are, if I've got them all:**

**Chiot- puppy**

**_joli garçon- pretty boy  
_**

**_S'il vous plaît arrêtez- please stop it  
_**


End file.
